Goodwill to All Whatevers

 It's the approach to Christmas. I have bought all but one of my presents. With the postal strikes - which I'm obliged to endorse - some of my gifts will show up in the new year. But I don't think anyone will really care. The kid's ones have arrived and no one really cares about adults at Christmas. I mean, I do - because I don't have any kids. Occasionally, I feel a bit sad about that. There is no mini-me out there, underachieving and confusing people. But the feeling is not aching enough for me to do anything about it - I'm not going to adopt a baby! Me as a dad! Can you imagine! I barely function as a boyfriend. As a human. 

I'm not a massive fan of Christmas. Actually, thinking about it, why am I not a massive fan of Christmas? What's the down side to Christmas? The weather, and you'd get that anyway. The rest of it: gifts, food, wine, peace on earth and goodwill to all, the better than average telly - those are all things I endorse year round. Christmas is the time of year where the general populous chimes with my thinking.  Everyone is wearing flamboyant clothing, they're drunk, they're putting on weight, they're making poor life choices and they're falling over. When you put it like that, I'm Father Fucking Christmas! I'm the fairy on top of the tree.  I'd grow a big white beard but Nawaz tells me I look "homeless" with a bit of stubble on my chin. 

He's not wrong. 

I'm sitting in my office, which is painted in the Christmas colours: green and red. I'm eating the left over pate (from the knife) from the Strictly Come Dancing Party we host bi-annually. Susan has decorated the tree in here with tiny woolen elves. I should point that this is not the Christmas Tree. The Christmas Tree stands, roots obscured by neatly wrapped presents, in the living room. This is a tree that just lives in our house. There are two biscuit tins which both have snow-capped pillar boxes on them. There are salt and pepper pots in the shape of robins. It's safe to say that Christmas has flooded the house like that belching toilet in "Parasite". 

So why do I think I don't like Christmas? It isn't the Christmas. It's the people. It's always the people. I think I'm in the process of accepting a truth about myself. I don't much like people. There are too many of them and they all like shit things, like football and cars and craft beer. They have fucking OPINIONS. I mean, what is up with these guys? Their voting record is just the worst. And they're more objectionable at Christmas, because unlike me, they have children to keep them in the house all year round, sensible, boring, grounding children. But at Christmas these same people make an effort to do things, to have fun, to be fun. They will wear antlers and elf ears. There may be a comedy jumper. They will drink for the first time all year and appear, glassy eyed and puce, the Coors Light foam gathering at the corners of their always open mouths. They are everywhere, they are legion, and there's no escape: every bolthole and refuge invaded by a conga-line of middle-management in Santa hats. Myself and my joyless kind scatter like cockroaches after the light snaps on, as this circus of mouth-breathers, sticky with liqueur and the piss on their shoes, bowls into our safe-spaces with a chorus of "Fairy Tale of New York" on their lips. Read the room, guys. There's a rainbow flag behind the bar. 

And this after the horrors of the World Cup. 

So, no, I love Christmas. I LIVE Christmas. But I like Holly and Ivy as decorations, not people. This year it will be just Susan and I in our green and red house, with the bumper radio times and a lot of red wine. The Swingle Singer's "Christmastime" album will be playing. We're thinking of having venison for Christmas dinner, if we can source some. It will be slow, quiet and cosy. And no people. If a fat man in a red onesie tries to climb down our chimney, so help me I will light that fire.